


Another Bad Santa (R)

by BlackMamba



Category: The Evil Dead Trilogy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:52:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMamba/pseuds/BlackMamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ash's attempts to spend some quality time with his wife on Christmas Eve doesn't go exactly the way he planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Bad Santa (R)

**Author's Note:**

> Series: [Tales of the Boomstick](http://www.valentchamber.com/viewseries.php?seriesid=59)  
> Character: Ash, OFC, OMC   
> Sexual Content, Graphic Violence, Graphic Language   
> Word Count: 2,025  
> Written For: The Chamber "[All I Want for Christmas](http://www.valentchamber.com/index.php)" Challenge

My name is Ash.

And I'm about to stuff my baby's stocking.

As you can probably guess by the smutty Yuletide pun, it's that time of year again. Tinsel's on the tree, the credit cards are maxed and my kid's got that all-American greedy leer, the one where his eyes are bloodshot and dilated from right clicking through last-minute shopping sales at Best Buy.

About one percent of that shit under tree has my name on it, which doesn't bother me nearly as much as it used to. Yeah, the first few years it was rough splitting Shelby's time with the kid, plus Christmas cheer was at the top of my "do no want," list, next to ankle socks and the clap. But things are different now. Shelby and I worked through our rough patch and our marriage is stronger than ever. I'm also proud to say my new improved daddy skills are enough to make Ward Cleaver look like an emotionally stunted douchebag.

So anyway, it's Christmas Eve. Shelby's decided to do the grown-up gift exchange tonight instead of Christmas morning, which is fine by me, since we'll both be covered with bubble-wrap blisters and hammered on eggnog-flavored Hennessy by noon. Plus I've got something special planned that requires little Ash to stand at full attention. Drunken sex loses its allure when you hit forty and lose six minutes off your boner.

That's six minutes towards the _end_, not the beginning, which let's be honest, you ladies don't really give a shit about anyway.

A.J's been tucked away and Shelby's eying her present with greedy twitchy fingers. I'm wearing the robe she got me, a vintage Hugh Hefner style (which actually makes my dick feel few inches bigger; maybe a little wiser too) and swirling a snifter of the most expensive brandy they sell at Costco. Shelby makes a sexy little squeaking noise when she sees the bra and panties.

"Is it leather?"

Hell yeah, it's _that_ kind of holiday.

"There's a pair of cuffs in there too," I say, pulling them out by the handle. "Your turn this time."

"Actually it's yours."

"Oh come on baby, you know I have PST."

She slides off the bed, the bra and panties in her hand. "PTS and you're just afraid you'll cry again."

"That was sweat." Shelby's walking to the bathroom and I crawl from the bed to enjoy the view. "Excessive perspiration," I add a moment before she closes the door.

So I cried a little when the cuffs started to chafe. What are you a Cylon?

I decide to serenade my lady love with a little baby making music a'la Donny Hathaway. I use "baby making" in the metaphorical sense as I am in no way, shape or form, interested in watching Shelby's love canal stretched to the size of a small honeydew melon ever again. But the music gets her in the mood and I like a soundtrack when I'm face deep in pussy. The beat helps a little with the rhythm, and…well you get the idea.

Something slams against the window as I'm adjusting the volume. The sound is loud enough to alarm Shelby who yells at me through the door. "What was that?"

"Nothing!" Something moves across the glass. "Probably just a bird."

I grab a roll of wrapping paper on the way over and lift it over my head like a bat. The wind makes a creepy whistling sound when I open the window and the fog is a hell of a lot thicker than should be.

Then I see it, some scraggly-toothed baby boomer wearing a Twilight t-shirt and a funky deadite snarl. She starts to say something (probably soul munching mumbo jumbo) but I jam the wrapping paper into her mouth before she has a chance. She chews on it a bit, crumpling snowman between her teeth before I shove it deeper, into her throat, cutting off whatever foulness passes for demon air supply.

"Wanna suck my soul? _Huh_? Do ya?"

"Ash, what are you doing?"

"Nothing Honeypeach!"

This zombie hag is not going to ruin my Christmas sex-a-thon. I shove the roll in deeper until the twitching stops and her eyes have almost popped out of their sockets. And then I shut the window and close the curtains two seconds before Shelby opens the door.

"Well?"

She does a little model spin to give the full effect. The bra's a perfect fit, which by my standards means it's probably a cup size too small. The panties are practically ass-less, just two flaps of leather resting high on each cheek. And as a self declared "ass-man" I can honestly say, that this type of Christmas miracle only happens once a year.

"Could you turn around again?"

Shelby rolls her eyes but gives me another back view. My brand spanking new boxers are stretched to the limit, and I'm pretty sure that the half tab of E I slipped into the cocoa is starting to kick in. "Fair warning." I reach out and palm both cheeks in my hands. "I plan on doing a few things that might put me on the naughty list."

"Mom? Dad?"

Shit.

"A.J.?" Shelby takes a step back and shoos me to the door. "See what he wants," she whispers.

I pull the robe closed over what is now angriest hard-on in existence. "Hey kid, what's up?" I step into the hall and A.J. stares at me with large eyes.

"I heard Santa."

This shit again.

"A.J." I bend down, careful to arrange the robe so I don't scar the kid for life. "Remember last year? What did we say about Santa?"

"That they're just kid-fuckers copping a feel."

"Whoa, hey!" I glance over my shoulder to make sure Shelby didn't hear. "Not that part, the other thing."

"Oh. There's no such thing at Santa."

"Exactly." I pat his head and point to his bedroom. "Now go back to sleep."

"But Dad, I heard him. He was coming down the chimney…"

"Stop making up stories Ash Jr." I put some bass in my voice so he knows I mean business. "Now go to bed or you'll be in time-out tomorrow."

His little shoulders fall. Any other night I'd feel guilty for choosing sex over my son, but…

Okay, so maybe I've done it a few times before, but like I said, Shelby and I were working through a rough patch. Some couples do therapy and long walks on the beach, Shelby and I kill demons and fuck ourselves unconscious.

A.J. schleps back to his room and I wait until his door closes to return to mine. Shelby is lying on the bed, one leg cocked at a sexy, come hither angle. "Santa is a kid fucker?"

I pull at the ties of my robe. "He must have heard it on Sesame Street. You know they're trying to keep up with the times. Elmo's on Twitter now." I move to climb into bed but she lifts a hand to stop me.

"Don't forget the handcuffs."

Right.

I'm reaching for the cuffs but a loud thump makes me freeze. It's coming from the living room, and Shelby's already sliding out of bed. "What the hell was that?"

"No." I stand up and grab the robe. "It's nothing. You stay here and…" I turn around and pull out her goodie drawer. "Play with a dildo or something." I pick up a cock that's twice the size of mine and dark chocolate brown. I stare at the monstrous head for a moment and stuff it back inside. "How about a vibrator?"

"Just go Ash."

I flick on the lights on the way to the living room. The back of A.J.'s head is illuminated by Christmas lights, the lime green color of his G.I. Joe footies easily visible. He's staring at the fireplace with a hard scowl, a plate of cookies and glass of milk clutched in each hand.

I stand beside him and watch as cinders and snow trickle down onto the carpet. The thumps are louder, regular thuds of flesh against brick.

"I told you," A.J. says.

"You said it was Santa."

"It _is_ Santa."

I turn to face him. "Listen, I'm only gonna say this one more time. There is _no_ such _thing_ as _Santa_."

"FEEEED MEEEEEE!!!"

Our fireplace has been filled with a chubby geezer in a Santa suit. It throws me a little at first because it looks like the chimney gave birth to asshole, complete with ashy amniotic fluid flying all over the place. Cotton balls are glued to his chin, and his mouth is dripping deadite juice. I turn to my son with a smug smile.

"See?"

A.J.'s mouth twists into a frustrated scowl and he gives the deadite a long look before winding up to hurl the milk at Santa's head. The glass shatters on impact, shards wedged into his face. Santa howls in pain and then ducks when the first cookie goes flying, rock hard shortbread snowmen Shelby force feeds us every year.

"Okay." I try to touch A.J.'s shoulder but he's already thrown another cookie. This one bounces off Santa's balls and he starts to whimper, twisting to get away. "Ha! Nice aim." I touch A.J.'s back. "But no really, knock if off."

"Stupid." A.J. throws another cookie. It lands with a loud _thrap_ against Santa's cheek. "Demon." _Thrap_. "Killed." _Thrap_. "Santa."

"Really?" I point to the abused, broken demon on the floor. "That's what you get out of this? Santa's dead now?"

"Why can't there be a Santa?" A.J. throws the plate and it slams against Santa's teeth. "If there's demons then there's angels, and if there's angels there must be Santa."

"That's like saying if there's water there must be pollyjuice potion."

"Harry Potter isn't real."

"I KNOW!"

"Would you two mind standing back?"

I look up to see Shelby aiming the twelve-gauge over my shoulder. She pumps once as I grab A.J. and we step out of the line of fire. The Santa struggles to his feet, face covered with bloody milk and broken glass. He makes a small, mewling sound before she plugs him, ending what has become a night of yuletide torture.

"You." Shelby lowers the gun and points to A.J. "Go to bed. Now."

A.J. sighs and starts a slow march towards his room. I watch his little back disappear down the hall and give my wife a knowing look. "That kid," I say with an _are we still gonna fuck_chuckle.

"Your son," she replies, with an _absofuckinglutely not_ glare. I nod and turn to look at the bloody corpse behind me. There's brain matter on A.J.'s new train set, a broken tooth wedged inside the bow.

"I guess I should clean this up then."

"I guess you should." She props the gun on her shoulder and the robe slides open, taunting me with leather covered goodies. "I'll be in the bedroom…_playing_ with the dildo."

And my balls shrivel two sizes.

So yeah, maybe not the best Christmas this year. My kid's a little slower than I originally thought and my wife would rather fuck a plastic penis than her own husband. Plus, there's the two corpses to bury, which let me tell you, is complete bullshit when it's snowing and the neighbor's kids are screaming "Ted Bundy lives next door," at the top of their lungs.

So while you're sitting around the Christmas tree bitching about the electric razor you didn't get or prying Aunt Dolly's face from a plate of mashed potatoes because she couldn't put down the peppermint schnapps, just think of your good pal Ash here, brushing piss and shit out of the carpet with a toothbrush or combing through the Christmas tree for tell tale signs of blood spatter.

There will always, _always_ be someone with a shittier holiday than you. He might actually live next door, and doesn't care about your elm trees or that the snow is killing your fucking geraniums.

He probably owns a shotgun.

And has _just_ enough room in that hole for one more body.

Next to Santa.

Happy holidays everyone.


End file.
